


Dedicated follower of fashion

by orcamermaid



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cecil is Inhuman, Comedy, Gen, Typical Night Vale Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orcamermaid/pseuds/orcamermaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite what Carlos may claim, clothing can contract viruses, and today it has. Fashion-forward Cecil is not amused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dedicated follower of fashion

**Author's Note:**

> i would like to warn you about two things. first of all: this is silly. just... very silly. secondly, cecil is not dapper or in any way stylish.
> 
> there are some mentions of violence, but none of it is very graphic, and it is all for comedic effect, as horrible as that might sound.

Cecil Palmer was not having a good day.

It had all begun with a very rude awakening, when his adorable lion’s-head slippers had turned into _actual_ lions’ heads, clambered onto the bed and tried to eat him. In his semi-awake state, he’d barely had the presence of mind to manifest a few extra limbs to catch them and slam them unceremoniously into the headboard. At that point, he had been annoyed, but it _was_ a Monday. You had to take these things into consideration. Letting the additional arms slip back out of existence, he sighed and got out of bed. A quick look out of the window informed him that the sky today was a very pleasant lilac, with wisps of robin’s egg blue cloud visible here and there. Cecil shrugged on his paisley bathrobe and willed his drowsy legs to make their way into the kitchen. He was only halfway through his first blissful cup of coffee when the belt of his robe turned into a boa constrictor. The nerve! With an outraged yelp, he grabbed an athame from his ceremonial knife rack and stabbed it into the rapidly constricting body of the snake. Reptilian blood spilled onto the linoleum floor – oh, _honestly_ , that would be a _nightmare_ to clean up – and his waist was released. He made a small noise of disgust and kicked the now-dead snake to the side before finishing his breakfast.

Getting dressed wasn’t much more pleasant. He’d had his outfit laid out on an armchair since last night, but when he went to put it on, his very _best_ sequined kilt had morphed into some form of levitating, glittering manta ray. It shot very annoying poison arrows in his direction as he approached it with a broom handle, but it only took a few choice hits to get it to dissolve into a puff of confetti and the inescapable scent of patchouli. Cecil huffed in annoyance. At least his lime green turtleneck t-shirt seemed intact. The same could not be said for the knitted knee-length socks, which were still socks, but had grown rows of rather disconcerting teeth. He knotted them up – it was the chevron pair, too; just his luck! – and tossed them out of the window. He heard a muffled scream as they hit somebody, but his brief moment of regret was stopped when he leaned out and saw that they had, in fact, landed on the repulsive head of Steve Carlsberg. Cecil grinned wide and sharp. Well, nobody would mind if a pair of beautiful socks chewed off _his_ ears.

He biked to work, having made do with purple plaid shorts in the absence of his beloved kilt. He had attempted to tie the outfit together with a yellow polka dot beret, but had given up on that idea when it transformed into a mongoose before his very eyes. As valuable as yellow polka dot mongoose fur might have been to the right buyer, he had chucked it in the trash on his way out. Outside Big Rico’s, a man held his violently thrashing jeans at arm’s length as he surveyed the bite marks on his bare, bloody legs. Near the dog park, he nearly caused himself irreparable psychological damage by glimpsing a hooded figure without its hood, as said garment appeared to currently be an aggressive orca whale. Right by the radio station, Intern Olivia was being strangled by her lanyard. As Cecil jumped off his bike, he shrugged at her in a ‘Sorry, what can you do’ kind of way and smiled sympathetically. Her face was just beginning to turn purple when he got inside the station.

Thankfully, the very newly employed Intern Trevor was not dead. Cecil found him in the break room, crouched on top of a table to get away from his growling, skittering sneakers. Cecil tutted at his lack of professionalism and manifested a few tentacles to restrain the shoes. Once they had been safely disposed of, he flopped down into a chair and pulled out his cell phone, dialing the only number he could imagine would make him feel any better.  
“Hello?” Carlos picked up after the first ring, sounding mildly frantic. “Cecil? Is everything alright?”  
“ _No_ ,” said Cecil morosely. “I’ll have you know that several of my favorite clothes tried to _eat_ me this morning.”  
“That seems to be happening a lot today.” He heard a sigh and the rustle of papers. “We’ve been trying to figure out what’s causing it, but there doesn’t seem to be any kind of reasoning to what kind of clothes are transforming, or even what they’re transforming _into_ … “  
Cecil sniffed. “It’s probably some kind of virus. It happened a few years ago, too. I do hope we can contain it sooner this time; everyone walked around naked for _weeks_ , and it was just horribly embarrassing for everyone involved, _especially_ the poor souls whose eyes spontaneously combusted from seeing the un-hooded figures.”  
“A _virus_?” Cecil knew that tone. That was Carlos’ ‘I know this is Night Vale but do you think I’ll fall for anything’ tone. “That’s not- I don’t- fabric can’t contract _viruses!_ ” Cecil smiled fondly.  
“Sweet Carlos,” he sighed. “Fabric can do anything it likes. It’s under the protection of the sheriff’s secret police.” Honestly, for a scientist, Carlos could be a bit slow at times. There was a pause.  
“…Right,” said Carlos finally. “I’ll, uh, look into that, then. The virus.”  
“I love you!” Cecil reminded him with a grin. “Remember to check your lab coats for teeth!”

He spent most of the day at the station. He did have to visit Old Woman Josie once, to get the (non-existent) angels’ take on the whole clothing ordeal – “I think they’re just confused,” Josie had said as Erika knitted her a new cardigan to replace the one that had turned into a small giraffe – but on the whole he had preferred to stay inside. There was only so much patience he had for murderous clothes, after all. Instead, he had settled into his recording booth and observed the day’s events through his third eye. As far as he could tell, they had already lost a few children to ill-tempered jackets. Beautiful Carlos had discarded his shirt when it developed pincers, and was now working with only a lab coat over his utterly perfect torso. Cecil smiled and lingered on that image for perhaps a trifle longer than what was strictly necessary. Steve Carlsberg had regrettably not lost any ears to Cecil’s socks, but was sporting several bite marks on the side of his face. Big Rico had trapped his chef’s hat beneath the leg of a chair, and was so pale you’d think he’d seen a wheat by-product. John Peters – you know, the farmer – was defending his imaginary corn crop from his denim overalls, which were now, in fact, a denim tiger. Tamika Flynn was shrieking viciously as she beat what might once have been a sandal into the scorching ground of the sand wastes. Cecil yawned and sent the shoeless Intern Trevor out to buy lunch.

“Listeners, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, we appear to be in the middle of another outbreak of the fashion virus, as it is colloquially known. My Carlos – brave, beautiful Carlos – has assured me that this is impossible, but that he and his team are nonetheless working tirelessly to find an antidote to what we can only assume to be an airborne virus. I myself have felt the devastating consequences of this infection, dear listeners; why, just this morning, I lost my softest pair of slippers! But have no fear, Night Vale. Your clothes cannot hurt you, unless they have contracted the virus, in which case they most definitely can and _will_ , and you should destroy them immediately.

“The City Council would like to take this time to remind you to not, under any circumstances, approach the hooded figures. Now, I know they can be tricky to recognize now that most of their hoods have turned into various kinds of animals and been consumed by the unspeakable terror that is the body they once adorned, but as with all things, it’s simple once you learn how to do it! If looking at them causes your eyes to melt out of their sockets and your soul to scream in spiritual agony, you are most likely dealing with a hooded figure. Just stay away from them, and you have at least a thirty percent chance of making it through the day alive! Doesn’t that just brighten your spirit?”


End file.
